CHAPTER 9: UNPREDICTABLE ENCOUNTERS

I turn to Avery and inquire, "You sure you don't mind tackling the laundry tonight, G? I can handle it when I get back."

With a shirt folded in hand, I finish my thought. Avery lets out a sigh, and I pick up one of her shirts, saying, "After all, isn't the whole point of being your little sister to make your life easier? So, no worries, I'll take care of the laundry."

"I don't care what you say, but I'm not letting you give up. It doesn't matter that you haven't spoken to that guy in a month; the semester isn't over yet," Avery insists.

"You're crazy," I reply, shaking my head.

"No, I believe in fate and miracles. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm already late for my date," she retorts.

I respond with a smile, "Tell Kalix I said hi."

"And make sure Connor doesn't sleep in my bed," Avery adds.

We share a laugh, and she heads out, leaving me alone until Connor arrives.

Indeed, a lot had happened in the past month. Avery and Kalix continued hanging out, still an adorable couple after three weeks. Meanwhile, Connor and I hadn't crossed paths since our chance encounters in class. But following the house party, I wasted no time compiling a list of college fuck buddies. Enter Fuck Buddy #5, who was due to come over that night.

With the last pile of laundry folded, I decide to slip into a brand-new set of lace underwear I had recently acquired. Just then, a knock at the door interrupts me. Through the window, I spot Connor. He's a straight-A student and the captain of the UP men's soccer team, a compact bundle of energy.

"Hey, Connor."

"Hey, sorry I'm late," he quickly apologizes, closing the door and shedding his leather jacket. "My roommate accidentally took both apartment keys, so I had to wait until he got back." He then sneaks a glance at my new lingerie and smirks. "Damn, is that brand-new?"

I offer a sly grin in response.

He wraps an arm around my waist, drawing me closer, and attacks my neck.

"Don't worry, Avery won't be back until later tonight, so we have plenty of time."

"Perfect," I whisper against his skin, and he cups my rear, lifting me and carrying me to my bed.

As he starts removing his clothes, he tosses me onto the bed with an evil, suggestive grin. I reach for a condom from my nightstand drawer, quipping, "Always gotta be prepared, you never know when you'll get horny." By the time I've discarded my pants, he's already inside.

"Damn, you feel incredible," he groans, blowing warm breath over the valley between my breasts.

"You're not so bad yourself," I tease as he withdraws, causing my back to arch. I then pull him back down to face me. "Enough with the talk," I insist, capturing his lips with mine.

After two hours, twelve condoms, and plenty of moans and pants, we finally catch our breath.

"You know, you're probably the first girl who's made me come first," Connor admits as he zips up and buttons his pants. "I don't mean to brag, but I can usually go on for quite a while."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I wink, quickly grabbing the first shirt I find and putting it on. "Ready for some Call of Duty?"

"You're definitely the only girl who suggests Xbox after sex," he chuckles as I hand him a controller. "Well, my friend," I quip, sliding the game into the console, "it seems like you need to diversify. My list of fuck buddies includes everything from tech geeks to athletes, and trust me, I haven't regretted a single one."

He laughs again, and we make ourselves comfortable on the couch.

"Vega, prepare to lose."

"Only in your wildest dreams, Miller."

We engage in some friendly banter throughout the night as we compete in multiplayer games. Eventually, Connor dons his coat and heads for the door.

Although the situation is lighthearted, I jest, "I'd invite you to stay the night, but I heard there's a surprise dorm inspection tomorrow. Don't want them finding anything they shouldn't," to which Connor laughs.

"Don't worry about it," he reassures me while straightening his collar. "I have to finish a paper by 9 a.m. tomorrow anyway." "Goodnight, Vega," he adds.

"Night, Miller," I reply, closing the door behind him.

For the remainder of the night, I tidy up the aftermath, and about an hour later, Avery returns looking positively ecstatic.

"Let me guess: you and Kalix got frisky."

She shakes her head.

"No, better! Kalix just asked me to be his girlfriend!"

"Shut up!" I exclaim, embracing her in a big hug. "Avery, I'm so happy for you!"

She returns the hug, her smile rivaling the stars in the sky. "Ahh! I can't believe it!" We release each other. "Kalix Miller, one of the biggest jerks I've ever known and despised, just asked me to be his girlfriend," she says in disbelief, flopping onto her bed and gazing at the ceiling.

"Well, believe it, girl," I assure her, taking a seat at my desk. "Though I get it. Who'd have thought you two would end up together? I mean, I always knew there was some hidden chemistry back then—I mean, no one teases someone like that just for fun. But this is a big deal. Ahhh!" I shriek. "Right now, I'm just so happy for you two!"

Avery and I share laughter, and she fills me in on the whirlwind of events. In a nutshell, it involved a romantic picnic on Arroyo Burro Beach, a midnight beachside proposal, and an eventful night in the car. I'm genuinely thrilled for her because she absolutely deserves it.

"Venti iced caramel macchiato with extra caramel and mocha-espresso drizzle for Isabella!" bellows the barista in the bustling Starbucks on campus.

I head to the counter, clutching my drink in one hand while the other holds a packet of Sour Patch Kids — pretty standard for me. Then, I make my way to the condiments station.

A familiar husky voice, one I haven't heard in a while, chimes in, "You might want to ask for a tray. Wouldn't want to spill your drink again," Max mentions as he reaches past me to hand me a napkin. His chocolate-brown eyes gleam under the ceiling lights, and his scent, a tantalizing blend of vanilla and Versace Eros cologne, fills the air. His breath is fresh and minty.

"Come on, Isabella! The guy's been MIA for a whole month and hasn't even been attending school. He doesn't deserve your attention, let alone a spot on your already-amazing list of people who make you lose your cool."

"Wow," I reply as I almost snatch the napkin from his grasp, "only took you a month to notice."

"So, you've been keeping tabs on our encounters," he says with a sarcastic grin. "That's not creepy at all."

"I can only say, 'Ugh, bite me,' before I gently push him away.

"There's a thing called 'personal space,' and he clearly doesn't understand it right now."

"Just let me know when and where," he says. I roll my eyes at his self-assuredness. "You know, I've been meaning to ask, 'Isabella,' is that short for Dolores, Charlotte, or-"

"No, it's just 'Isabella,'" I promptly correct him.

"Interesting."

"Not really. Excuse me, l-"

"Well, in that case, I think I'll call you 'Issa.'"

"Seriously?" I ask skeptically.

"Yeah," he replies with a fake pout. "Don't you like it?"

"Not unless you think I'm related to Moe Doodle," I remark.

"No, you're far too uneventful to be associated with a Doodlebop in any way," he states. "And just so you know, my six-year-old sister would concur."

"Shots, Split, Issa...what's with all the nicknames, anyway?" I question. "Why not just use my actual name?"

"Because everyone else already does, and it wouldn't be special between us." "Special? What do you mean?"

"Whatever you want it to mean, Issa."

"Right. Well, even though missing the first five minutes of my next class because of you wasn't fun, I'd appreciate it if you'd just get out of my way."

"When you're angry, you're even more adorable."

"You think irritation is attractive?"

"You think sex is irritating? After my night, I'd beg to differ," he teases.

"And, once again, it's my cue to leave," I say, finally turning around and making my way to the door. But, of course, not before one of his tattooed arms encircles my waist, pressing my back against his toned chest. His warm breath tickles my ear.

He whispers, "No one stopped you from leaving the first time, honey. You chose to stay and listen."

Then he leans away, runs his fingers tantalizingly along my stomach, as if that would have any effect on me, before releasing me entirely. He winks and flashes that infuriating 'bad boy' smirk I've read about in too many of Avery's romance novels.

However, he commits a grave error when he reaches for a blue Sour Patch Kid — yes, one of those messed-up blue ones from the open packet I had forgotten I was holding. So, I have no choice but to issue a warning. Swiftly, I turn around, grabbing his substantial package, which isn't hard to locate given its considerable size. He hisses softly to avoid attracting attention. The bustling café provides perfect cover.

"Touch my goodies without permission again, and I'll ensure you won't have any of your own," I threaten, giving it a playful squeeze.

"Crystal," he utters through clenched teeth. When I finally release him, he lets out a relieved sigh. "Damn, Shots. If you wanted to touch me, you could have just asked," he grins, finally turning to head toward the exit I should have used as soon as I spotted him.

I mutter, "Freaking jerk," but make sure he hears it as I pass him, taking the lead in leaving the café.

You should know one thing about me: I don't linger on things for long. If I can't figure something out or get a hint in a few minutes, I move on. Life's too short to waste on unanswered questions.

So, why the hell am I still mulling over Max and our café chat earlier today? He's got me all twisted up. One moment, he's making me hot and bothered within seconds, and just when I think I can add him to my list (because it's clear the challenge was over before it began), he pulls some unexpected move that makes me reconsider. I've never, and I mean never, wasted time on guys who were clearly uninterested before Max. Not to brag, but I know my way around the bedroom.

Enough of that. It's Friday night, and Fuck Buddy #8 is throwing another epic house party. I should be prepping with Avery, but instead, I'm stuck in Max's web.

Avery asks, "Red or teal to go with this skirt?" while holding up two crop tops.

"Teal. It'll make your eyes pop with that smoky eye you're rocking."

She grins and opts for the teal top, hanging the red one back up. Then, she turns to me, "How do I look?"

I glance down at my outfit—a black eyelet lace-up zipper-back cami top paired with a leather pencil skirt that zips down the middle.

"Stunning, as always. Makeup's on point too."

"Great! Hygiene check?"

We do our usual checks and head to Drew Sutherland's place, shared with three other roommates. It's only a ten-minute walk from our village, which is a relief.

When we get to the party, the door's wide open for us. I've been here a few times, so it's all familiar. Avery says, "I'll go find Kalix. Text me if you need me."

I reply, "Sure thing. I'll be in the kitchen," and we split up.

I spot a bottle of bourbon-spiked Smirnoff, the typical college party fare, but struggle to reach an empty glass in a high cabinet.

"Here," a voice comes from behind me. Suddenly, a stranger lifts me onto his shoulders, and I can finally reach. "What in-"

"While you're at it, grab one for me too."

With not much choice, and secretly enjoying the newfound height, I do as he asks, passing him a glass before taking mine.

"Thanks, Issa," he says in that voice that's now all too familiar. I stop dead in my tracks.

"You!"

Max chuckles as he lowers me back down, then nonchalantly pours himself a drink from my bottle. Like we're best buds or something.

"Good to see you too," he says with a grin, swirling the liquid in his glass before taking a sip.

"What are you doing here?" I'm seething. It takes a lot to make me mad, but watching him take my bottle just reminds me that he swiped my Sour Patch Kid earlier today.

"What do you mean? It's a party, open to anyone."

"No," I say, irritation creeping into my voice, "I mean what are you doing here, smartass? Why are you bothering me again? Didn't you learn your lesson earlier today?"

"Oh, that," he says casually. "Not really," he shrugs and smiles. Then, another sip, and I swear I nearly knocked the drink out of his hand.

No one—absolutely no one in my entire life—has confounded and annoyed me as much as he has.

I start to respond, but he quickly interrupts, holding up a finger as he spots something behind me.

"Hold that thought," he says.

I turn to see what's happening, and there's Ryan? I look back at Max, and what do I know? He's locking lips with the pretty brunette, who's been facing away from us all this time. When I look back at Ryan, he's smirking and walking away. And when I turn to face Max again, I think, "Okay, how hasn't my neck snapped yet?" All I see is the bewildered brunette, staring ahead like cartoon characters seeing stars, and Max exiting through the kitchen's back door.

Enough is enough. Normally, I'd have kicked someone like this to the curb ages ago, no second thoughts. I despise drama almost as much as I hate mysteries and nosy people. Let me reiterate, I'm a simple girl from the Philippines, and I don't waste time on pointless things.

But here's the thing, if I don't catch up to him now, I might never hear the words that'll put an end to this and let me close the book on this nonsense once and for all. Avery might not have let me quit when we were in disagreement, but now that we've cleared the air, she won't have a say.

So, as I swing open the door and step onto the deck, I tell myself, "This is the beginning of a long overdue farewell, Max Blackwell."

I sprint down the stairs and scan the bustling backyard, but his ninja self is nowhere to be found. I contemplate heading back inside, thinking maybe he slipped through the front door to avoid the kitchen. Yet, I change my mind as I spot him speed-walking between Drew's house and the neighbor's. I pick up my pace to catch him.

"Hey!" I shout, but he doesn't seem to hear me. "Why the hell did you just bail?"

Silence.

"Max!"

He finally mutters, "Get back inside, Isabella," but that's not what I want to hear.

"Why?! What's going on?"

"Don't worry about it, just go."

As I replay what happened inside, I make one last attempt to halt him as he's about to step onto the driveway.

"Is it because of Ryan?" I begin, but he cuts me off.

In less than a second, he presses me against the side of Drew's house, clamping his hand over my mouth and using the other to slam against the brick beside my head. When I finally get a glimpse of his entire face, my brows shoot up, my eyes widen, and my heart races—this is a level of messed up that surpasses that day in Philosophy.

"Are you finished?!" He snaps, fueling my anger, so I vigorously shake my head.

"No, I'm far from done," I mumble into his hand. "This is just the beginning."

Since he's not letting go, I resort to what worked the first time we met: I run my tongue along his warm skin. He seems to remember that night, too, as I see him trying to hold back a small smile. He sighs in defeat and finally takes his hand off.

"For real, Issa. Go back inside," he says, stepping back to free me from the wall.

"Not until you tell me what's happening."

"It's not important."

"Oh, it's not important, huh? You licked my hand on purpose after mistakenly licking yours, flirted with me in class only to get angry a week later when I sat in your unassigned seat, offered to walk me home just to do what? Ignore me for a whole month and then steal my blue Sour Patch Kids and walk off with me on your shoulders. Oh, hell no, Blackwell, it's not unimportant at all. It's just one word: bull****."

"Did I mention you're adorable when you're mad as hell?" That's all he can muster, along with that annoying smirk of his. He flashes it so often; I'm surprised it hasn't become a permanent fixture on his face.

But I don't dignify his question with a response; I have something else to say.

"And let's not forget, you bumped into me hard enough to spill coffee all over Ryan. The same Ryan who just grinned at me as he left the kitchen when you came in."

At my words, his smile vanishes, and he gets dead serious.

"That wasn't an accident."

"What the hell does that mean?" I demand to know.

"You know what? It doesn't even matter. Just tell me what you want from me. What the hell do you want?"

"Nothing," he repeats.

Nothing? Well, that's good enough reason for me to say no. Hell yes! Avery Carter, get ready to eat your words.

"Noted," is all I say before walking away.

I got what I wanted, didn't I? Then why does my gut still nag that this might not be over?

Please, please, please don't change your mind, I begged myself as I walked away. My steps carried me toward the driveway, and as I neared it, I passed by a table sitting there for no apparent reason.

"Come on, Issa," he insists. "I didn't mean it that way," and I'm about ready to facepalm.

In a flash, he's gently tugging at my wrist, making me pivot to face him. 

"What?" I snap, layering on the anger, partly for show and partly for real frustration. I mean, I was so close, so close!

My inner voice chimes in, "Please, we both know you want some of that."

Well, it's not entirely wrong. I wouldn't mind having him for the sheer pleasure of it.

"I just wanted what was best for you."

"Sure, like that makes perfect sense," I scoff. "And let go of me," I demand, attempting to wrest my wrist from his grasp, but he tightens his hold.

"Not until I'm certain you'll believe me."

"Alright, first off, I barely know you. Second, how am I supposed to believe anything you say if you won't spill any details?" I say, my voice escalating toward the end of the sentence. Then, I pull out a move straight from the playbook of every female protagonist in the novels I've read – I bring up the other guy again. "Is it Ryan? Is he the one you claim to be looking out for?"

That hits a raw nerve instantly. Max's grip tightens to the point where it's nearly cutting off my circulation, and if he was angry before, now he's positively furious.

"Stop. I'm dead serious, Isabella," he utters slowly, but the anger still seethes beneath his words.

Isabella. Not Issa, not Shots, not Split, and not even any Italian. Just Isabella. Yeah, he's beyond mad and as serious as it gets.

"And so am I!" I refuse to back down. Speaking quietly, I insist, "Max. Let. Go."

Finally, I yank my wrist free, rubbing the spot where his fingers undoubtedly left a mark. He gazes at me in a way he's never done before, and for the first time since we met, I'm at a loss for words or actions.

Why was this so much easier in the books?

If I were Macy Anderson, I'd have the perfect comeback, a knee to the groin, just like Ruby Buchanan.

If I were Mia Hastings, I'd pounce first, pushing him onto a table.

If I were Haley Geller, I'd barrage him with questions and drive him insane.

Even the Tessa Young in me would beg him with my desperate heart...

But the Isabella Vega part of me, or as I call her, 'me, me,' just stands there, frozen, thinking, "Damn, what's next?!"

And my conscience decides NOW to be a smartass.

Yeah, like that's ever worked.

I'm utterly clueless about what to do next, so I wait for him to make a move and decide my course from there.

Still, nothing.

We maintain an unyielding stare, feeling like an eternity. I'm a deer trapped in headlights, he's a predator on the prowl. When his sculpted, muscular form suddenly lunges at me, his robust, veined hand gently cradling the back of my head, he crashes his lips onto mine with such intensity that all I can think is, "Isabella Vega, what in the world have you gotten yourself into?"

While I may not be completely sure about this, it doesn't seem responsible to pull away now that his incredibly kissable lips have finally met mine. Instead, I reciprocate, allowing our mouths to meld together.

Was this a kiss akin to those in the novels? To some extent. Was I foolish enough to fall for it at this moment? Absolutely not, but not for the reasons you might think.

There are numerous questions I want to throw at him. What's with the erratic behavior shifts? Was Ryan genuinely the reason he walked away like that, or was it something else or someone else? Is he aware of the sexual tension between us? Has he been avoiding me because he's apprehensive that I might desire more than a casual tryst? But all these questions are shoved to the back of my mind when only one simple query springs to the forefront after our silence is broken.

"Your place or mine?"

"Mine," he promptly replies. "It's closer."